Time is Odd
by sammy93
Summary: A girl with an unsettled past has the start of dreams, with one thing in common. Mystery.


Time is odd when you are dreaming. Sometimes the whole night goes in a flash. Others, it seems like hours, but on the clock only a few minutes have passed. My dreams consist of completely different things, but one.

There was a man in my dreams, not saying he has left, but he always seems to appear. Black hair, pale skin, tall, dressed in clothing you wouldn't see anymore. Something, I guess, you'd see in Hollywood. His face was God like, but to an extent.

In my dreams he would guide me, but we'd never end up anywhere. He'd hold my hand gently and just guide. I would never speak to him, he wouldn't speak either. I've come to call him Mystery when I would tell my friends about him. They were always excited to see what I'd dream about, he was their excitement. I was their story teller.

I woke up about three times a night with a dream. He'd, of course, be there.

When I awoke it was about 5a.m. on a Tuesday morning, school was in three hours, my alarm would be going off in two, and my mother would be walking up the stairs in one and half hours to make sure I have a double wake up call.

My mother was a simple woman. She was a lawyer at a law firm for the past 10 years. She had golden blonde hair and dimples a man couldn't resist. My father had passed away when I was younger, around 6 or so. Memories I tend to forget, but as for my mother, she remembered but acted as if he never existed. My mom, to me, was a typical slut but also my best friend. I can tell her anything of any sorts.

I decided to get up and actually take a shower. Cold showers in the morning are actually good if you want some waking up. I washed my hair with my fruity shampoo; it made my hair smell amazing. Brushed my hair, blow dried, just the normal stuff.

My hair is long and black, you'd think I'd have blonde hair, but I don't. My father had black hair and brown eyes. I inherited his hair and personality. From my mother I got her blue eyes and body figure. I suppose you'd say I'm pretty, hell I know I'm pretty. I'm not the type that actually likes to flaunt what I have. I'm a typical girl, not liking to be flashy, but having enough friends.

When I was ready with my hair and make-up, I went straight to my closet. The typical clothes I'd wear would be pants and a tee shirt. Like I said before, I'm a typical girl. I got out a bracelet and a necklace that matched. My father had gotten me the necklace and my mother had gotten me the matching bracelet. The necklace or should I say locket, had a photo of my father and me.

The memories of my father still haunt my mind once in a while. The things I remember of him aren't much. The way my father died is truly sad, things I just don't want to think about. He was a cancer survivor for two years. Lung cancer had started to kill him, but he had never smoked a cigarette in his life. When I was six they diagnosed him with lung cancer again, saying that it came back surprisingly.

I remember standing at the end of the hospital bed, watching the doctor tell my parents the news. Of course, my mother cried and my dad comforted her. I looked at the paper at the end of the bed, it read: Carl Reed diagnosed at 8A.M. Saturday, November 12, 1996. Lung Cancer, length of time: 6 weeks.

When I read that at age 6, I had one thing in my mind. What the HELL! Does this mean? My dad actually sat me down and told me what was going to happen to him, I didn't understand, but I got an idea. I would walk through the walls of the hospital looking at the cancer patients, seeing how their lives are wasting away, just as their bodies were. I realized, then, that my father was going to go through the same pain as them. I couldn't bare it, even at 6.

My father's life ended sooner then it was promised. He died within a month. The cancer was actually too much for him and he couldn't bare it. The funeral, we held, went by rather quickly. Death always seemed to go by fast since then. I learned to move on and not dwell on the fact that they're dead and gone. I cried a lot the day we laid him to rest.

The day was a Wednesday, sun was out, and birds were quiet. All I could hear were the sobs coming from the crowd of people that were gathered around my mother and grandparents. I wasn't crying though. My dad wasn't suffering, but in a better place. Wherever that place maybe.


End file.
